the art of war
by le petit soleil
Summary: but wars change people. draco himself experienced that firsthand. —slight draco/hermione, seamus/lavender.


**disclaimer: **I will never own this.  
><strong>dedication: <strong>To this past week, which has been amazing.  
><strong>note: <strong>I AM BACK. Apologies probably mean nothing to you guys right now but I'll apologize anyway: I am incredibly sorry. I haven't written anything for in what seems like ages. Basically the only free time I have is on the weekends, so you're gonna have to get used to that. Just wanted you all to know that I'm not dead. :]

…

It was morbidly surreal, she noted, staring at the motionless bodies on the stone floors. Even with hexes and spells thrown around and good and evil struggling for dominance, one could still notice how dreadfully awful they all looked, considering they were all —

No. That's not a good thought.

Hermione pushed a stray curl out of her face as she pressed herself against the wall, hearing the panicked shouts of her schoolmates as the familiar swish and whirr of spells filled the air. She gripped her wand until her knuckles were white and turned the corner, her eyes immediately zeroing in on the limping figures of Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas. Seamus, she could see, was standing in front of a still body, trying to guard it.

"Seamus!" she called. "Dean!" And she ran to them.

The cloaked Death Eater in front of them smirked and raised his hand to send a curse her way before Dean hit him with a powerful _Reducto_, blasting him backward into the wall and effectively incapacitating him.

Seamus dropped to his knees and bent over the body — Lavender Brown's body — and Hermione's eyes wandered to the terrible bloody wound that Greyback had left on her neck. Dean leaned down, whispered a few words into Seamus's ear, and took off running towards the Great Hall.

"Seamus," Hermione whispered, and she, too, fell to her knees. Seamus was sobbing unashamedly now, the tears running down his dirt-streaked face. His shoulders shook and he seemed almost…_fragile_.

"I'm not gonna let 'er go like this," he murmured, his voice hoarse and scratchy. "Lav's gonna live. I know it." And with new resolve, he stood, carrying Lavender's body. "She's gonna live."

He limped off in the direction of the Great Hall, where Madame Pomfrey was treating injured students left and right. Hermione dearly hoped her friends were not among the wounded.

She stood, brushed off her jeans, and strained her ears against the deafening silence — she needed to hear those screams so she would know where to go. She needed to go where she was needed.

A distinct voice shouted, "You're gonna have to catch me first!"

Hermione sprinted in the direction of Fred Weasley's voice.

…

She couldn't. She couldn't hold it up alone.

"HELP!" she shrieked. "Someone, help! Please!"

A Death Eater was slumped against the wall, the dark red of his blood trickling down from his temple and staining his cloak and slacks. Hermione had her wand out, and it took all her will to hold up that wall.

She was trying to save Fred's life.

And all of a sudden George came running, followed by Ginny, Molly, Arthur, Ron, and Percy; and, unbeknownst to them, Antonin Dolohov.

"Look out —"

A Stinging Hex caught her firmly in the leg and her concentration dropped, and the world seemed to blur and move _so slow _—

A minute later all she heard was sobbing, and she wanted it to stop. She tried to get up, but pain shot up her leg and she bit the inside of her cheek and forced herself to assess what had happened.

_I was running, and then holding up the wall for Fred. _

…_Fred!_

And when she looked she really wished she hadn't.

He was dead, and the details were too gruesome and too depressing, and she felt the weight of the universe on her shoulders as she whispered, "It's my fault. It's my fault. It's my fault."

Ron tried to comfort her but she scampered away, willfully ignoring the sharp pain in her leg. She needed to get out, get somewhere safe, _escape_.

But when the pain overwhelmed her and her emotions ran high, she threw herself into a seemingly-empty classroom, her eyes full to the brim with unshed tears.

"Granger?"

Her glassy eyes met the confused grey ones of Draco Malfoy, and she stiffened up. "Malfoy," she spat.

"Granger, I'm not here to fight," Draco said softly.

"The hell you're not," she muttered, sliding down against the wall. "Go away. I don't care if you were here first."

Draco arched an eyebrow. "I'm not leaving, Granger. Now, will you tell me what's wrong?"

"No," she began, but her eyes welled up again. "N-no. I don't —"

And Draco was at her side in an instant, rocking her back and forth as she told about Seamus's determination and her guilt over Fred's death in broken sentences.

And it was then that he finally stared at her, taking in her puffy eyes, disheveled hair, dirty clothes, and all of the warring emotions clearly displayed on her face. He realized that the old Hermione Granger — uptight, bookworm Hermione Granger with a penchant for insulting ferrets — would never cry this easily.

But wars change people. Draco himself experienced that firsthand.

…

**footnote: **Not fluffy at all, but okay. R&R?


End file.
